


Without Words

by callievalpoli



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-08
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-18 01:44:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/874270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callievalpoli/pseuds/callievalpoli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek likes shutting Stiles up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without Words

**Author's Note:**

> I… have been in a lot of pain the last few days. Did something to my shoulder/back/neck that makes doing anything, including writing, something akin to torture. So, if there are any mistakes, please point them out. I tried, but… Unbeta’d. Concrit welcome!

Derek's always been fond of his ability to shut Stiles up without words. Just one look, and like that, the babbling stops--the incessant noise stops--and he can have a little peace.

Doesn't matter what Stiles is saying, one look from Derek and his words wither and die until nothing is left but uncomfortable silence. And Derek, he'll take his silence any way he can get it.

They're in a meeting, and Stiles will not stop going over and over and over the how of werewolf dentistry. And, okay, yes, it might be interesting to someone with Stiles' odd curiosity, but it has nothing whatsoever to do with the point at hand--the Alpha pack and how to defeat them.

Derek waits until Stiles is facing him, mouth going a mile a minute, and flashes 'the look.' Stiles words stall a little, and then they die away.

Derek smiles to himself as he turns back to Isaac. Life is good.

*

"C'mon Derek, you know you want to," Stiles says, holding out an ice cream cone threateningly. How someone can hold an ice cream cone threateningly, Derek isn't quite sure. But there is no doubt in his mind that Stiles is wielding this ice cream cone the way other mortals might yield a flaming sword of justice.

Derek gives Stiles 'the look'. For the third time. Nothing happens, other than the drip that lands on the hardwood. Great. He will make Stiles clean it up himself. With his tongue, if Derek has his way.

"C'mon, big guy. You know you want a taste of this." He gives Derek his own look, the one Derek knows means trouble with a capital T. And then Stiles' finger is sweeping through chocolate ice cream and he's pulling his hand back in preparation for some maneuver that's going to end in Derek clawing up his back.

Derek has to do something. If getting chocolate ice cream off the floor's gonna be difficult, it's nothing in comparison with getting out blood. (Also, he can't hurt the kid. He just--can't...)

In self-preservation, he cracks his knuckles together. That combined with 'the look' has Stiles mumbling, "Just wanted to give you a tasty treat that's good to eat. Jeez," and popping the fingerful of ice cream into his mouth.

Derek watches in smug satisfaction. At least for the first minute. But then Stiles is _still_ sucking on sticky fingers, licking the palm as well. It makes Derek uncomfortable, hot behind the ears. He shrugs it off and attempts to go back to enjoying his peace and quiet.

But he can't shake off the feeling until Stiles is finished with the ice cream cone. And the aftermath.

*

They're meeting as a pack. Again. Also, Stiles tagged along. Again. Derek has no control over his own life.

They are supposed to be discussion defensive possibilities. They are supposed to be discussing possible new weapons. They are supposed to be discussing possible uses of mountain ash in a way that's Hale pack friendly and Alpha pack unfriendly.

They are not supposed to be discussing sex.

"So, when you--" Stiles makes an abortive little motion and flicks out his tongue. "What did it taste like?"

Scott has this ridiculously blissed out look on his face. "I don't know. Like--Allison."

Derek tries giving 'the look'--has been trying to give 'the look' for the past half hour. Sadly, Stiles isn't looking back.

Stiles covers his mouth with one hand. "I see. I see." His eyes scrunch up with interest. "But, wasn't it totally gross? I mean, I read on this internet forum that it smells like fish. Isn't that gross? Fish smell?"

"It doesn't smell like fish," Scott says, laughing. "It smells like..."

"Let me guess. Allison?" Stiles says, laughing himself.

And, it's bad enough listening to the two of them talk about sex. But listening to them talk about sex with Allison is just--not acceptable. He slaps the desk. Hard. The glasses on it rattle together.

Scott doesn't notice at all.

Stiles just throws an absent, "Do you mind?" over his shoulder, before saying, "I don't know, man. It seems like a lot of work. And how do you know if she even,like..."

"Gets off?" Scott asks.

"Yeah, exactly," Stiles says, pointing a finger at his own nose.

"You just--know. You know?" Scott says.

"No. I don't know Scott. Obviously. What with never having had sex before myself. How do you know?"

And this--this is not an okay conversation. Derek is getting that uncomfortable feeling again. Only, this time, he's pretty sure he's not just hot behind the ears. His whole face feels on fire. It must be the talking about Allison. That must be what's making him so uncomfortable. (And that little tiny part of him that thinks it's something else? Well, that part can just be quiet.)

Scott is in the middle of describing how he 'know-knows' that Allison is--Derek edits the rest out. He can't even think about sex and Allison in the same sentence. It gives him hives. Derek doesn't even think. He just stamps his feet. First one. Then the second. Then the first again. And, when that doesn't get a reaction, both at the same time.

The boys still haven't so much as acknowledged him. Peter, however, is slow-clapping in the corner. "Nice," Peter says, "very nice. I haven't seen you having a tantrum since you were five years old, and your mother wouldn't buy you the Barbie you wanted. Talia never did understand you, did she?"

And if Derek thought his face was on fire before, now it feels like it's actually burning up. "I--" he thinks of a multitude of responses. Not one of them will save face. "I forgot you were here."

And _now_ Stiles decides to tune in on him. Of course. "Since you're so forgettable and all," he says to Peter with a smirk.

Peter arches his eyebrows at Stiles, then turns back to Derek. "You were always terrible about things you wanted but couldn't have." And with that cryptic remark, he walks away.

Derek watches him go for a second, wishing he'd just killed him again. He turns back to the conversation, just in time to hear Stiles say, "Well, I don't know. If sex with a chick is like you describe, I think I'll just be gay."

Derek chokes on something. (Actually, Derek chokes on air.)

"Hey, buddy," Stiles says, with his completely fake concerned face. "You okay over there? Need a course in remedial swallowing 101?"

Derek feels the back of his ears heat up. He tries to think of something to say back. Anything. In the end, he settles for flashing his Alpha eyes and growling a little.

Scott's eyes flash yellow and he backs down, eyes squinted in worry. Stiles mumbles, "Strike two. And three strikes you're out. Not looking good for our hero." And then he subsides.

Derek should feel good. They're finally able to get on topic, albeit with him being the only person talking. But he's too disconcerted by the feeling of his stomach roiling to really get anything positive out of the meeting.

*

Stiles is singing. No, Stiles isn't singing--he's something more like crooning. There was this  _thing_ the pack had earlier in the day. that's now winding down. He calls it a _thing_ because he isn't quite sure what else to call it. It hadn't been a meeting. There was no discussion of top priorities and defensive maneuvers.

Instead there was scrabble.

And painting of nails. (On the boys as well as the girls. Stiles had threatened him with a blue sparkly polish, but he'd stopped when Derek had flashed a hint of fang. He hadn't seemed scared, though. He'd actually been laughing as he turned away.)

Derek thinks, somehow, without his consent, his apartment was the location of a party. One, he's relatively certain, that was instigated by Stiles. Needless to say, he's not exactly pleased.

People are making their way out the door. Boyd stopping by him to say, "Hale, this was a good idea," and shaking his hand. He silently gnashes his teeth and doesn't mention the fact that the idea wasn't his. Isaac smiles at him (actually smiles, he hadn't gotten the kid to do that once while they were living together) and waves on his way out the door. Allison says, "Thanks for the party, we had a lovely time," from where she's tucked into Scott's side. The scary thing is, he's pretty sure she's serious. Luckily Scott doesn't say anything. If Scott said something nice to him the world would probably end.

How Allison came to be there in the first place, he doesn't begin to want to speculate on. And of course, she'd brought her friend with her. The little redhead. Lydia. ('The one Stiles wants,' he thinks. 'The one he's in love with.' He tells his mind to shut up. His mind doesn't listen.)

It's down to just a handful left, those who belong there, Derek and Cora, those who don't belong there, Stiles and Lydia, and the one who could never belong anywhere, Peter. And then Peter is taking Cora by the arm and saying, "Come on. There's this fighting move I've been meaning to show you."

Cora raises her eyebrow and says, "When did you learn this one? When you were dead or when you were insane?"

"C, none of the above," Peter says with a smirk. "I learned it at the feet of our most talented leader."

Cora turns up her nose at Derek. "Him? Please. He couldn't teach a fighting move to a toaster."

And that's hurt Derek feels, hurt and disappointment in himself. He was never meant to be an Alpha, but he thinks he's doing pretty good for an assumed responsibility.

Peter just shakes his head. "Oh, dear. No. I wasn't referring to Derek. I never quite picked up the art of parkour. I was actually referring to Talia." He guides her to the door, hand on her shoulder.

Derek sighs, thinking of his mother--how strong she was as an Alpha. How natural she was in that role.

"You're just trying to get out of the clean-up and you know it!" Stiles yells after them, shaking a towel in their general direction.

Peter smiles over his shoulder. "Would I do a thing like that?" And then they're gone.

Derek turns, and it's just Stiles and Lydia left. They should be going any second. And then he'll have his peace and quiet back. (And then he'll be alone...)

Lydia turns to Stiles, and says, with a flip of her hair, "Thanks for inviting me. It was... very enlightening." She turns to Derek then, with a smile that reminds him a little of Kate--calculation hidden very close to the surface under a witty and sexy exterior.

(He should warn Stiles. But he won't. Stiles is allowed to make his own decisions. To make his own mistakes.)

She says, "Well, Derek. I would thank you for having me, but I'm pretty sure you'd far rather I hadn't come." She glances at Stiles, over he shoulder, and finding him distracted with a pile of plates, she continues talking at a lower volume. "I would say don't do anything I wouldn't do, but I would do anything. So..." He mouth smiles, but he knows that look, that it's actually a threat. "If you hurt him, I'll make you wish you could die the normal human way." And then she's flipping her hair one more time and saying, "Buh-bye," with a little wave and fake grin.

Derek sighs, glad to be rid of her. He's alone at last. Alone--

He hears a crash from the kitchen.

"Oops. Sorry," Stiles says, not sounding sorry at all.

Alone with Stiles. Lovely.

"If you break anything..." Derek says in something close to a shout.

"I know, I know," Stiles says, making his way back into the living room. He wipes his hand on the towel he was waving around before. "You break it, you bought it. Believe me. There is a reason why I never have any money." Stiles starts picking up more plates, stacking them clumsily.

"I didn't ask you to stay and clean up," Derek says, feeling uncomfortable. He can't figure out exactly why he's uncomfortable. There's just something that's not right about this whole situation. He crosses his arms.

"You didn't have to," Stiles says, with a big grin. "Comes free of charge."

Stiles bends over to pick up a stray glass. His tower of plates wobbles, and before Derek can think, he's there, steadying them. "Like I said," Derek says, getting Stiles back upright and neatly transferring the plates to his own arms, "I can do this myself. You can go."

"Or," Stiles says, swiftly circling around Derek's back. "I can stay."

Derek could tell Stiles to go. Derek should tell Stiles to go. He doesn't though. Instead, he says, "Why didn't you go with your girlfriend?" (Derek mentally runs his head into a desk. Repeatedly. Hard.)

Stiles' eyebrow arches up. "Oh, you mean Boyd?" he says, smirking a little. "He won't admit our love is true. So, I've left him to his own devices."

"Not--" Derek scratches the back of his neck, uncomfortable with this whole conversation. "I didn't mean Boyd. I meant--" at the last second he, for some reason, can't say her name-- "the girl."

"Allison," Stiles' grin is now downright devious. "Not only does she not like _me_ that way. I don't like _her_ that way either. You're really batting a thousand today."

Derek scowls in exasperation. "I didn't mean her. I meant--" he still can't say her name for some reason.

"Your sister." Stiles winces and says, "No offense Derek, but I wouldn't touch her if she were the last woman on the planet. Then again, touching women--"

Derek cuts him off with an exasperated growl. "Not my sister. Your little red-headed friend."

"You mean Lydia? You can say her name Derek. You know it. I'm sure you do. What with the whole you trying to kill her last year thing and all."

Derek just grunts. That doesn't even deserve a reply.

"Sure. Whatever. I wasn't here with Lydia," Stiles says, rolling his eyes.

"Yes. You were. I'm pretty sure I have eyes, Stiles, and you were with her the whole night." He doesn't know how he knows this, but he's sure of it. (It might have something to do with how he couldn't keep his eyes off Stiles all night--but he doesn't blame himself for that. He gave up blaming himself for that a long time ago. After all, Stiles is distracting...)

"Well, _I'm_ pretty sure you're not me Derek. And I can assure you I'm not _with_ Lydia Martin." Stiles has his hands on his hips, forgotten glass sticking out awkwardly from the left one.

"But you _are_ in love with her?" It comes out a question. He doesn't know how. He doesn't mean it as a question.

There's a look of dawning realization in Stiles' eyes, "Oh for Pete's sake-- I'm not in love with Lydia. I haven't been for a while now. Something about hearing how your one true love has one true love feelings for someone else tends to leave a guy cold, if you know what I mean."

Derek should just leave it alone. Stiles has told him something, something he didn't in any way need to hear. He can just ignore it and let it go away. "You talk about her all the time."

"Talk-D. I _talked_ about her all the time," Stiles says, flailing a little with the glass. Water goes everywhere. "Oh crap."

Derek just grabs the towel from where Stiles has it stuck in his belt loop and for once thanks all that's holy that Stiles is as clumsy as he is.

"I'll just go..." Stiles says, gesturing at the kitchen.

Derek swishes the towel around with his foot and nods him away.

When he's gone, Derek lets himself think. If Stiles isn't with Lydia... If Stiles isn't with Lydia, then he probably isn't with anybody. He hasn't heard any new names come up. Not that he's been listening. Not that he should care. Or does care.

Stiles walks back in the living room with what looks like every towel in Derek's house. "I haven't been hung up on Lydia for a while now," Stiles says, throwing down towels haphazardly.

Derek freezes. He thought they were over this conversation topic. It's time they were over it. Moved on. "Okay..." he says. And if Stiles won't change the topic, then Derek can certainly change it. He's capable of doing that. "Stiles--"

"I haven't been hung up on her, because I've been hung up on someone else," Stiles says, looking steadily at the floor.

Derek feels that roiling feeling come back in his stomach. Along with it, his mouth goes dry and his palms get wet. He tries to think of something to say. Anything to say.

"Aren't you going to ask who?" Stiles says, looking up at him from where he's kneeling on the floor.

'No!' Derek thinks, and for once, his mouth follows suit, "No."

Stiles just looks at him for a second, breathing heavily. And then he sighs and picks up some of the damp towels. "Well, then. I think I'm just gonna leave you to it." He turns and walks toward the kitchen. And as he's walking, under his breath he's singing, "And it's one, two, three strikes you're out at the old ball game..."

And that--for some reason that drives Derek completely insane. That he is just--singing. He can't for a second shut up. Not for one second. Derek can't let him go on--just _needs_ to shut him up. Only, Stiles is facing away, so none of his regular methods will work. He thinks about just saying Stiles' name. He's pretty sure that would be enough. But it's not right. Derek can shut Stiles up without saying a word. He can always shut Stiles up without saying a word.

So he walks over to Stiles, grabs him by the shoulder and spins him around. And he should wolf out. Or glare at him. Or, just--something. Instead, he kisses Stiles.

It's wet, and hot, and he's just feeling the interchange of tongue when he realizes exactly what he's doing. He jerks back, and Stiles is staring at him with wide eyes. _Terrified_ wide eyes. The eyes of prey. He stares at Derek and stares at him, and then he's darting forward.

Derek jerks back, confused.

Stiles looks at him--looks at his mouth, and then licks his own lips, and then his eyes dart back up to Derek's eyes. "Uh, I'm guessing that wasn't... what I thought it was. Was it?" He pauses, waiting for Derek to speak. But Derek doesn't have anything. He has no words. No idea what just happened. "Right," Stiles says, shaking his head. "I--uh--I guess I'll go then."

Derek should say something, he thinks. He should apologize. He should give an explanation. But he doesn't have one to give. He watches Stiles back up until he's bumping into the door. "Thanks for the party," Stiles says with a wave. "I had a great time." He gulps, and then he walks out the door.

Derek didn't think when he woke up this morning that he would be having an existential crisis in his living room, with a stack full of plates in his hands and pizza sauce on his shirt. He supposes he should get used to the unexpected happening in Beacon Hills.

*

It's hours later when Peter and Cora walk in. Peter says, "So, how's the little mouthy one? I like him, Derek. He's a keeper. You should seriously think of turning him."

Derek growls at him.

"Well, well, well. Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the pullout bed this morning. I think I'm going to leave before I'm tempted to say something useful. Cora." Peter kisses her knuckles and walks away.

Cora has a black eye and a bloody lip, but she looks better than she has since she's come back. "You should start training with Peter. He's got this spin-kick that I cannot even describe."

Derek just grunts and turns back to contemplating his dirty shirt.

"Derek, I know you're not exactly one for the fashion, but pizza is something you eat, it isn't something you wear." Cora sits across from him on the sofa.

"I know that," Derek says, looking up at her.

"Sure, right. Well obviously nothing I'm going to say is going to improve your mood, and personally I don't want my good mood bogged by your bad one, so..." she moves to the stairs.

"Cora," Derek says, stopping her. He's been thinking about this, and something doesn't add up. "Have you been talking to any of the pack."

Cora gives him a funny look. "Yeah. I just got finished spending three hours learning fighting style from Uncle Peter..."

"Not Peter," Derek says, sitting forward in his seat. "The actual pack."

"So like you," she says under her breath. "Yes, I was at the party. I did speak with a few of them. The less human ones, anyway."

"Right," Derek says, discouraged. She didn't speak with Stiles. There's no possible way she could know. But Derek feels compelled to ask her anyhow. "Did anyone say who Stiles is interested in?"

She laughs, almost cackling with it, holding herself upright by grabbing the post of the stairs. "Please don't tell me. You don't know?" She says.

He shakes his head slowly no.

A new burst of laughter takes her over. "Okay. All right. Well, then. This is the funniest thing I've heard, ever."

"Who is it?" Derek asks, voice coming out harsher than he meant it to.

"Oh, no, no, no. Brother, if you don't know, wild horses couldn't pull it out of me. And you know how much I love wild horses." She walks up the stairs, chuckling the whole way.

He gets up, thinking about following her upstairs and torturing it out of her, but he's never much cared for torture, even if it is deserved in this case.

There's only one option left. He has to go talk to Stiles.

*

"Derek," Stiles says, arm braced on his front door so that it's only open a few inches.

"Who?" Derek says, voice low.

"You, Derek. Me, Stiles," Stiles says, pointing at the appropriate people.

"I know that," Derek says. "That's not what I'm asking. I'm asking the question you wanted me to ask earlier. Who is it?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about. What with you being all not-asking-complete-questions guy," Stiles says.

Derek bites back a groan. This is just like Stiles. Forcing him to say it. "Who are you interested in?"

Stiles blushes hard and looks at the ground. "No one."

"But you said before that--"

"Look, he's not interested in me, so just--"

"He," Derek says. It comes out a gust. It's not Lydia. Or Cora. But, it could be Isaac. Or Boyd. Or, god, it could be Peter. "He who?"

"Like I said, it doesn't matter. He's a crazy person. Totally not interested in me, and thus crazy. Get it? Ha!" He backs up a step and starts closing the door. "I'm just gonna..."

Derek grabs the door before it can close. "Can you just tell me who it is?"

Stiles gives him a bitter look. "Can you just tell _me_ why it matters to you? I mean, I'm just some annoying kid you can't wait to get rid of."

"Stop," Derek says, wondering when this conversation got away from him. "Don't put words in my mouth. Don't do that."

"Why, Derek?" Stiles says, crossing his arms over his chest.

He doesn't know why. He can't for the life of him think of why it matters. It just does. He needs to know. He needs to know more than he's needed anything in... a long time. "It matters." He swallows, looks at the floor. "You matter."

Suddenly a hand is on his shoulder. "Why do you have to be so hard?" Stiles asks. "You're like the great wall of China or something. Completely impenetrable."

"Stiles, the great wall of China is in tatters."

Stiles smiles a sad little smile. "So are you," he says.

Derek's brows furrow. He is. He's a wreck. He knows it. But--well he thought he was passing. He thought that no one could see through his facade. "How...?"

"You see, the way I figure it, this started off at a disadvantage. I mean, you were part of it, so clearly..." Stiles looks up at him, and Derek just--knows.

Derek swallows. "Well, if you could just communicate like a normal person."

"I don't think I'm the one struggling with communication here," Stiles says with a twisty little smile.

"At least my sentences make sense," Derek says, taking a step forward.

"Really?" Stiles takes a step forward himself until they're only a few inches apart. "The last time I looked it up, grunts and howls do not constitute everyday conversation, pal."

"You must be spending time with the wrong people, then," Derek says, closing the last couple inches. "You should fix that," he says into Stiles' lips.

"I'll get right on that," Stiles whispers back. They kiss, and it's like his first kiss ever. Not the bumping noses or the excess of spit or the misuse of tongue. The way it feels a little like perfection. It's just what he never knew he wanted, warmth and closeness and rising lights...

Although, that last one doesn't quite make much sense, even to his kiss-addled brain.

He looks up and sees Sheriff Stilinski shining a flashlight in his eyes. "Derek Hale, the ex-convict," Stilinski says. "Any reason why you're molesting my very underage son?"

"Oh my god, Dad. I'm seventeen. Not, like, twelve or something. Just... get over yourself already."

Stiles tries to tug the flashlight away from his father, and from the look of things, this all might devolve into a really undignified fight between the Stilinski men very soon. So, Derek opens his mouth to say goodbye, and instead he says, "I love him."

The Sheriff stills at that, and casts the flashlight back in his direction. "Well, at least you have good taste. I think," he says, wryly.

"Hey," Stiles says, irritated.

"Just--don't do anything else I have to arrest you for before he turns eighteen, huh?" the Sheriff says, and then he's holding out his hand, and it takes Stiles picking up Derek's hand and putting it in his father's for Derek to get it. "If you hurt him, they'll never find the body," the Sheriff says, smiling broadly and clasping pretty damn tight for a human.

Derek thinks about assurances and platitudes. What he says is, "Good."

After his dad walks away, Stiles says, "So, love, huh?"

"Yeah," Derek says, arching his eyebrow in challenge.

"Well," Stiles says, with a huge smile. "I guess I can live with that."

*

Derek has always been fond of his ability to shut Stiles up without words. Only, now, that involves a lot fewer instances of 'the face', and a lot more tongue. And biting. And scratching.

He still pulls 'the face' at times, though. When Stiles least expects it. And if Stiles' reaction to it has changed? Well, Derek doesn't mind the new results any more than the old ones.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to follow me on [tumblr](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/callievalpoli).


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